For one of the many applications my mother forced me to fill out for internships and such, the essay question was, "Describe fully an experience or event that has had a significant impact on your life and how you changed as a result."
It was a very hot August 1st, in 2002. My mother and I were driving back from my summer camp early since I had an appointment. On our way there, we found out that the exits we would normally take were being blocked off. Possibly due to some construction or accident. Because of this, my mom had to take a new exit we weren't familiar with, and we came to a 3-way stop sign. I'm still not sure as to who didn't stop or who should have stopped, but we ended up colliding with a school bus. My memories of that moment are far from pretty, and I have quite a few.
We both pulled through, but not without scars. Hers were internal, permanently impacting her vision. Mine were external, permanently marking my face. I was seven years old.
I don't really think the event actually hit me until later. Car accidents are one of those things you see happen to others, and you always assumed that it would never happen to you.
When I first got home after the accident, I was too afraid of my own reflection, with the new and scary distortions. My dad covered up my mirror, so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Everyone I met would be curious and bombard me with the same question: "What happened to your face?" It would aggravate me because I just wanted to forget. But as a kid, I bounced back after some time and took joy in the fact that I was the only kid in school allowed to wear a hat during the day, to protect my face from the sun.
Immediately after the accident, my parents and I went to many plastic surgeons, asking about ways to reduce or fade the scar. But the procedures they mentioned involved reopening the wounds and stitching them back together more neatly. My parents and I weren’t comfortable, so we left it alone.
As time went on and I became a teenager when appearance is everything, my self-esteem dropped and I would subconsciously be stressed about my face, and how it was no longer symmetrical. What would people think? Did I even look pretty? Was my scar the reason boys didn't like me?
After some time, the scar faded to a point where I stopped noticing it. Occasionally, I would get an inquiry about my face, but it wouldn't bother me. I began to accept my scar as a part of me, and I slowly moved on.
A few years ago, my parents brought up the topic of fading my scar again, asking if I wanted to look into that process more seriously. I didn’t even need to think about it. The scars I’ve received show that I have overcome something and moved on. One quote that I love is “Never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.” It's taken me a while to believe it, but I now know. I am stronger.
